


Freedom to Fly

by Cycnus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 20:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13666617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cycnus/pseuds/Cycnus
Summary: Sometimes there is no choice, for the world has molded them into monsters and it is too late to change that. But when brown meets emerald, and knives cross not in threat but in understanding, a chance blooms for them to escape.AU - Harry left the Wizarding World for District Five.





	Freedom to Fly

“As usual, we’ll begin with the female tribute.”

Clove readied herself, preparing to leap up to the stage the moment any name was called. _I have no choice,_ she reminded herself. _I must volunteer._

“Clove Kentwell.”

Or maybe she wouldn’t have to.

-

“Finch Crossley.”

Harry stared mournfully. He didn’t know her very well, but she was only, what, fourteen? Fifteen?

“For District Five’s male tribute…” This was it.

“Harry Potter.”

_Damn it._

-

No one came to visit her before they left. What was the point? If Clove was a worthy daughter, she would be home within a month. If she died in the arena, she may as well have not been alive. And, it wasn’t like she had any friends. The persona she adopted while training was cruel and arrogant, cold and condescending. It was simply what she had to do.

She boarded the train, quickly excusing herself from the gathering. Clove had no desire to deal with Cato simultaneously bragging and spewing food everywhere. She discarded her old clothes after changing, the standard Career uniform. She had nothing, no possessions, no token. She was nothing, because no one cared.

-

Harry spent the time before boarding the train alone. He had no family, no one to miss and no one to miss him, but that didn’t mean he wanted to go to his death. Two more years, and he would have been safe to live the rest of his life in peace. Two more years, and he would have been able to escape everyone trying to kill him.

He looked at his chosen token. A stick of smooth, polished holly, the core made of phoenix feather, the handle wrapped in black cloth. He hadn’t used it since he had arrived to District Five. It was just a token, a memory of the past he had managed to leave. Perhaps that was why he kept it, because it was proof that no one cared.

-

Clove liked simplicity. She had told her stylist that. She liked things that didn’t hide what was truly behind them. She liked the feeling of being strong.

Despite that, she hated her costume. It was better than District One’s, she would give her stylists that, but the armor made her feel restricted. Imprisoned in the cage of gold metal. It was heavy and awkward, interfering in every motion and wearing her out with heat and weight. There was no freedom in this suit.

She ignored it. To those who mattered, her complaints were nothing, just like her. She had to put up with it, she had to put up with the act. So, Clove sneered as she always did, that same image of youthful cruelty that was all anyone knew her as. The Capitol loved it, as was the point. They loved the idea of a young girl being a ruthless killer.

They were sick. She imagined knives cutting into their throats. Did it matter that it was a morbid image? It was the kind of person they had made her to be.

But as the cameras focused on each chariot, her eyes were carefully analyzing them. That was what she was here for, wasn’t it? To win? Clove saw the shallow charisma of One, the timid intelligence of Three. The wavering pride of Four.

And then there was Five. Clove thought they looked stupid. The dark-haired boy seemed to agree with her. She looked at his bright green eyes and saw both resoluteness and a sense of regret. For some reason, her gaze was drawn to the back of his left hand, seeing it on the big screen. For some reason, her mask slipped.

But only for a second. District Twelve gave her more reason to sneer.

-

Harry thought his stylists were idiots.

Solar panels were hardly attractive or appealing. Frankly, he thought District Twelve got the best deal – he had accidentally overheard their conversation – so why were they complaining?

He sighed even as the chariot jolted forwards, the horses moving forwards in a gait that reminded him uncomfortably of the carriage rides back… there. He stopped himself before he could go too far back. Those times were long gone, and they would stay in the past if he could help it.

He stared ahead, even as the Capitol screamed in pleasure as each chariot emerged. They didn’t really see him, did they? Even if the costume actually made him stand out in a way that was not completely stupid, they wouldn’t have been able to see who he was. That was okay. He had the rest of his life before his death to show them.

What a barbaric competition.

He wondered what kind of person would love it. He wondered what was wrong with each and every one of the cheering spectators, and how many of them were secretly horrified, like he was and hid. He wondered what brainwashing the Careers had gone through. But then he met the eyes of the girl from District Two, in her gold gladiator armor. Perhaps the most accurate representation of any tribute of all.

She was different. She hadn’t volunteered. Harry found herself entranced by her sharp and piercing gaze. He didn’t see what made Finch think she was a monster. Her face – it looked kind. Welcoming.

A rose hit him in the solar panel. Harry ignored it resolutely. No doubt his mentors would think he was ruining his chances. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to win. He simply didn’t want to do it as they expected from him.

He wasn’t sure how far he was willing to go to avoid becoming a killer again.

-

She ran into him at the lift. “You’re different from them,” the boy told her, staring into her eyes.

-

“Being different is a curse,” the girl replied bitterly. “You know.” The lift stopped, and she left.

-

Eye. Throat. Heart.

Having sharpened steel between her fingers gave her a sense of security. Clove liked the power that knives gave her. Knives were fast, knives were versatile, knives were deadly. Every target in front of her was destroyed.

Heart. Throat. Eye.

Awe. Admiration. Respect. Fear. Hatred. Clove felt the eyes on her. They were uncomfortable, apart from one pair. They were green, and they contained nothing. It meant that she didn’t have to feel anything pressing down on her. Comforting, in a way.

She flung another knife, and it spun blade over hilt towards its target, embedding itself up to the handle. More stares.

She turned away from the knife throwing station. It was too much.

-

She was a threat.

Harry was laying low, of course. He wasn’t a Career – he couldn’t afford to display his skills so carelessly. From the knot-tying station, he watched the girl. She was deadly, a whirling hurricane of sharp blades and killing thorns. Thorns of a rose, indeed.

She could kill him.

No, she couldn’t. No one here could kill him. They didn’t know who he was, what kind of monster he could be. They didn’t know what he had gone through. How easy it was to break when everything he had turned out to be an illusion.

She was hurt.

The girl had seen his scars. Harry knew it, from the way her striking gaze drifted from his forehead to his forearm, to the back of his left hand. _I must not tell lies_.

He wasn’t lying when he said she was dangerous. He simply didn’t mention that it was in more ways than one. There could only be one Victor in the Games.

-

He walked over and sat next to her, picking up a spare coil of wire and unwinding it absently. His emerald eyes met hers. “I’m Harry,” he said carefully.

-

“Clove.” She was wary, tense, like the coil he was carefully undoing. She was like him, he supposed, in this situation simply because there was never any choice in the matter.

-

She returned to the training center at night. She always worked better at night, when the clear starry skies could shine down upon her. When the natural ambience could let her indulge in the peace and quiet of being alone.

Clove thrived on being alone. It made her stronger.

But this person didn’t count. He was there, too, but Clove didn’t feel uncomfortable. It was a unique feeling, almost as if she didn’t mind his company. They didn’t talk as they trained, but they may as well have been spending the night interviewing each other.

It was a gift, to know about someone from the way they moved, acted, or fought. Harry was truly someone very different.

His body released all the energy he had kept back over the training day. Clove watched him as he twirled his broad-bladed dagger, twisting and ducking beneath imaginary blades. She saw the way his lean muscles shone with sweat under the training room’s yellow light, the way he moved like a shadow, disturbing nothing in his path. She saw him flow over the rope course with the ease of someone born for flight, someone who belonged in the sky.

And she felt like she had finally met someone like her.

-

Harry didn’t really sleep.

Sleep always brought bad things – horrible memories, horrifying visions. Sleep was his enemy.

The training center contained only two that night. He wasn’t surprised, really, when he entered the room at the same time as Clove. He had noted it before, hadn’t he? They were one and the same. Children molded into monsters, stripped of their freedom, chained to the ground.

He wanted to fly.

She made him feel as if he could. Harry had no qualms about demonstrating his own talents after her show in the morning. It felt as if he was giving himself a second chance, by opening up to this girl even if it was only in action. It was reassuring, as if showing him that he wasn’t yet broken.

They didn’t need to talk to understand each other. It felt as if they knew each other just by gazing into each other’s eyes, seeing the pain of their past and their desire to escape. Their shared simmering anger at those who had caused them injury, and their shared resignation at being trapped to their fate.

But she gave him hope.

-

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No, you?”

“Me neither.”

“How did you get your scars?”

“…I’m sorry, but I’d rather not talk about them.”

“That’s fine. I understand.”

-

“Hate him. What about you, what do you think about your partner?”

“I know her, I suppose, but not that well. In fact, I think I’ve actually talked more with you than most others in these past two days.”

“You’re very antisocial, aren’t you?”

“ _You’re_ calling me antisocial?”

“Touché.”

“Obviously.”

-

Clove saw him the next day at training, and smirked from across the room. The older boy returned it discretely, when he was sure no one was looking. That was good – he was cautious. Then again, from their interactions in the past day, she could tell that.

She followed Cato and the other Careers to the weapons again, flinging a few knives in boredom before noticing that Harry had moved to the nearby swords station.

“Hey, Potter,” she called, heading over. Out of the corner of her eye, Clove noticed Cato looking up in interest.

“Kentwell.”

“You suck,” Clove told him bluntly. _For taking so long to get me away from these idiots._

“You suck too,” he replied, completely straight-faced.

She peered over at the sword in his hand. Just like its carrier, it was different from the rest. Compared to the modernized utilitarian design of the other swords, this gold and silver weapon was elegant, laden with rubies around its hilt. There was an inscription along its blade, but Clove wasn’t really able to read it. She quickly pulled a thinner, lighter blade from the collection.

“I’ll kill you in the Arena.” _That’s why I don’t know why I’m talking to you._

“Don’t worry,” he answered, again seeming somewhat lost in thought as he stared at the sword with a frown. “I’ll kill you too,” he repeated absently. “I mean, first.”

Cato rolled his eyes and spun back around to hacking at his own dummy. Clove took the opportunity to grin and shuffled closer to the only person in the entire world she honestly liked, at least to an extent that she didn’t mind having him around. Her eyes caught the glint of the inscription. _Godric Gryffindor._

-

“Are you alright, Harry?” Clove asked him in a quieter voice. Her usually sharp and cutting tongue now held a tone of concern.

Harry blinked, coming out of his thoughts. “Yeah,” he reassured her, brushing away his worries. It didn’t matter how or why the Sword of Gryffindor had somehow come up here. The fact that it was the only object with even a touch of magic he had met since arriving in this world wasn’t a cause for concern yet.

Clove raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press him. Harry liked that. She wasn’t pushy, like certain other females in his old life. Her question told him that she was there for him if he needed her, but also showed that she would let him be if he thought it was better.

He gave the sword a few experimental swings. It felt as if had the last time he had used it, perfectly balanced so that it felt as if it weighed nothing. But, remembering what it meant to him, remembering what he had been put to in order to receive the sword, Harry slammed it back into the rack with force.

_She’s dangerous. She could be the one to kill me._

Though Harry treated the Games with distaste, he didn’t want to die. Surviving meant that Clove would be killed, whether by the Gamemakers’ inventions or by another tribute. Perhaps, even, by Harry himself.

But another part of him told him that he would struggle to do that.

Harry shifted over to the station on edible foods. Clove followed him, keeping up a casual tirade of taunts to throw off the others. This time, properly alert, he responded in ways that actually made sense. Either way, they hoped that they were accurately creating the impression that something had happened last night (which it did) which prompted an unusual enmity between the two of them (which was anything but true).

Judging by the way everyone else gradually lost interest, allowing Harry to confirm that they were meeting that night in the training center again, they succeeded.

-

“I want to show you something,” Harry told her suddenly. Clove paused her knife throwing, turning to look at him. The boy seemed apprehensive, and she did her best to give him a reassuring smile. It was slightly difficult – she never did that.

“I’m paying attention.”

Harry took a deep breath and faced a dummy.

“I’m from District Five. Power,” he told her.

She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. She knew that he would elaborate anyway.

“They talk about energy. But they have no idea what power truly is.”

His eyes may have been glowing.

“This… _this_ is power.”

He placed his hand on the dummy’s chest. His eyes flashed. The target smashed into the wall on the other side of the room. She felt it, his power, as it wrapped itself around everything around him, including herself. It made her feel strong and protected at the same time. As if she had found a balance at last.

She liked it.

-

Clove reacted well.

Harry liked that. There was no terrified shock, no angry screaming. There was neither horror nor pestering. Only simple acknowledgement.

Perhaps the slightest sign of being impressed.

But what really did it for him was the fact that the dummy hadn’t yet hit the ground. The dagger impaled through its throat was pinning it several meters above the wall.

“You really are different,” she commented.

He smiled, feeling more understanding, familiarity, and even trust building up between them. Perhaps it was the intimacy of his magic still enveloping the room, and the girl at its center. He had never gotten the hang of reeling it in.

He didn’t know why he chose to show her his magic, his best kept secret since coming to Panem. Maybe he trusted her. Maybe Harry thought that he had a high likelihood of dying anyway, and he wouldn’t feel right without sharing his secret with at least another person. And who could he trust more than the one girl who had quickly become a friend?

“Clove…” She was a threat. She could kill him. She was dangerous. But he didn’t care anymore. “Breakfast on the roof tomorrow? Get away from the rest of these puppets.”

She acknowledged his casual tone with a nod of acceptance. They were good. “Sure.”

-

“Have you ever tried pumpkin juice?” he asked her. “Here, try this.”

The unfamiliar taste hit her like the supply train that passed through the Districts. “Disgusting.”

-

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” she asked him, her gaze boring into his.

He shrugged. “Does it matter?”

-

The Gamemakers’ expressions were expectant as they looked down upon her in the otherwise empty room. Clove knew why. They knew what she was, what they had turned her into, and now they wanted to see it for themselves. The monster they created out of a girl.

She complied with their wishes. There was no point in resistance, in pointless rebellion.

Clove threw her first set of knives, dispatching a trio of training dummies with emotionless efficiency. That was what she had planned, what her mentor had instructed her to do. It was good. But as she slung her small blades, she knew she couldn’t stop there. It wasn’t simply a desire to outshine Cato, who had exited the room before her with a large smirk on his face, nor a yearning to make herself shine. It was simply… unfulfilling to keep herself tied down.

She could feel the tingling of the last bits of Harry’s magic lingering on her skin, empowering her as she slung her knives toward their targets. Shifting the rhythm of her breathing, Clove moved into action, gliding dynamically across the room with her knives in hand. She stepped between the dark trunks of fake trees, and launched her weapons to split someone else’s arrows. The ghost of emerald eyes watched her as she transformed her systematic slaughter into an art, a deadly dance of steel.

“Thank you, Miss Kentwell. You may leave.”

And she did. She headed out the door and walked the hallways to the elevator. She pressed the button labeled with the cursed number that marked everything she seemed to own, and felt the floor rise beneath her. And as she exited it, she heard Brutus’s demanding question wash over her.

“Fine,” said Clove briefly, before she headed into her room.

-

So, she had gotten a Ten. That was good. It was what she had wanted.

They had shared breakfast that morning too, though they knew the end of their time was rapidly approaching. It was a sentiment too hard to admit, and so they ignored the fact and took joy in simple conversation.

Yet, in the end, this number somehow meant more to the rest of the world. Not so for Harry, however, for he treasured the companionship his friend provided more than any score someone could give him.

Finch had received a Five. She’d shrugged at his look and left to her room wordlessly. Not even glancing once at their mentor, Harry stood to do the same.

He got a Six. That was good. It was what he had wanted.

Harry was no Career, aiming for the double digits to prove his strength. He was no weakling, to be suspected of faking his skills, despite the truth of that possibility. His deft knots, his amateur swordplay… they sufficed for the day. His work with the knife, on the other hand, was something he would hide until he had to use it in the arena. And as for his magic… that was something to be kept to him alone.

But no. That wasn’t right.

His magic was for Clove as well.

-

Her escort was a moron.

Clove knew there was no point in listening to the woman. She knew how to act – putting on her mask was as simple as changing clothes now. It was easy, _too_ easy to force every part of her personality into a mental box and chain it shut deep within her mind, filling the empty holes with strength, arrogance, malice. She was a girl killer, and she could show the Capitol that without the aid of a simpering fool.

So, when lunch came and she got the chance for a break, she left and didn’t return. Clove didn’t care that both her mentor and escort glared at her when she returned just in time for her dress fitting, having been completely absent from both of their lessons. She had been somewhere else, with a far better companion.

Clove met Harry’s gaze from across the room as they awaited their turn for an interview. Her lips, she knew, were twisted into a cruel smirk that promised pain and death. Her eyes, she hoped, were conveying gratitude, for the time the boy spent allowing her to feel like herself for one afternoon.

He was different. He had always been different from the rest, a kindred spirit in this ruined world. Harry was an emerald that shone through the darkness the Capitol tried to enshroud them all in, and his very presence lit the way. Though her path still only headed forward, the light was a gift she would not undervalue.

And so, while her lips spoke thinly-laced threats and ruthless insinuations in response to Caesar’s questions, her mind thought of Harry.

-

He wasn’t quite sure what to say.

It wasn’t that his mentors were completely useless, though they were for the most part. But Harry simply couldn’t understand the shallowness in Caesar and the rest of the audience. He knew in his heart the truth of the situation, but how was it that they thought anyone wanted to discuss the consistency of their pillow while being prepped for slaughter?

Did the interview even matter? Harry intended to win the Hunger Games. He could do so on his own merits, without the aid of anyone’s wallet.

So, though he could have answered that particular question, Harry remained silent. It was after an awkward pause that Caesar shrugged and moved on to the next. The man’s efforts proved pointless, as by then Harry had already lost himself in thought.

He wasn’t thinking about the music, or the garish clothing of Capitol citizens. Harry was distracted by the spirit of a girl with whom he had spent the afternoon. He could recall her smile and laughter – genuine rather than ugly – the expressions she showed no one else but him. He could hear their sounds, feel his own lips turning up as they spoke. Understanding. Empathy. Trust. They were things Harry never thought he could share with anyone, not after he realized what he thought he had was simply flawed. Yet here they were.

Harry knew he _could_ win.

But, he didn’t know if he could live with the consequences.

-

They spoke for the last time on the roof at midnight.

The glow of the moon reflected the peaceful expression on Harry’s tilted face as he admired the view of the skies. The stars twinkled, constellations seeming to draw themselves into the dark canvas of outer space. Yet the appearance of freedom was truly anything but. She felt more trapped than anything.

Clove spoke first. “I came here to win.”

He nodded. “I intend to myself.”

And with those words, they knew. They knew that their vision could never be a reality, that the life their hearts would have wanted would never exist. Fate had doomed them from the beginning. Clove could see the sadness in him as clearly as she felt her own.

She had grown up in solitude, abandoned by those who should have cared, suffocated by those who did but for all the wrong reasons. For her entire life she had been alone. Clove never would have believed that she would care for anyone as much as this, and have that same care – a genuine one – reciprocated. But it was all for naught, and she realized that just as easily as he did.

After today, she would no longer dance around the dummies after the other trainees had long left, nor share pancakes and juice atop the tower with her friend each morning. She would no longer receive or convey hidden reassurance and comfort with a second of eye contact, nor speak aloud of other things as their hearts conversed in harmony. She would no longer be able to embrace the intimacy of Harry’s power as it washed over them in demonstration, feeling it rush through her blood and lighting it up. No.

Today was their goodbye.

-

Harry wasn’t a fool.

Yet he couldn’t help but wish he was.

If he were a fool, he’d make the foolish decision. He would choose the path his emotions set out for him over that his rational mind had planned. He would forgo his goal, his determination, for this. But he wasn’t a fool, so Harry shut the suicidal thoughts away in favor of survival.

It didn’t help him, much. The pain was constant, everlasting in his mind, heart, and soul. He had been behind a shield for far too long, and now that he had finally found someone he thought he could trust, someone to whom he could expose every single one of his vulnerabilities, something he could believe in… the hope was taken away from him.

Harry thought of his previous life, and of the pain he had felt then when the end had come about. It was nothing compared to the thought of losing her.

Clove was a dream. She was like him – strong because she was weak, hard because she was soft, guarded because that was all she could be. They were weapons honed by those who controlled them, but together they could temporarily escape their chains. But apart, they were back to where they were before.

“I’m sorry.”

The words said everything for both of them. It was an apology for what they might have to do, a regret expressed for the loss of each other. A sorry that the next time they met – if they ever did get that chance – it would be as enemies.

It was a sorry that they couldn’t have been something else.

-

_“I’m sorry.”_

She rolled over and buried her face into her pillow, willing her tears to go away.

-

_“I’m sorry.”_

He stared at his ceiling, chest heaving in fear, knowing that it was hopeless.

-

Somehow, Clove knew that this was the end.

Eleven’s dark ox was someone she could never hope to match in sheer physical strength. Cato was too far away to save her, even if he would have wanted to. She was stuck within Thresh’s grasp, at his mercy, unable to move, knives fallen out of her hands.

There was no question about it. This was the end.

In her last moments, she let her mask drop. There was no point in hiding anymore when she knew she was going to die. She wasn’t just some monster. Clove was scared, angry, hurt. She hated herself and the world around her, resented fate, loathed the end that was coming.

It wasn’t enough. _This_ wasn’t how she wanted to die, crushed in the bare hands of a boy.

Clove had always held the keys to her own prison, the one in which she languished day after day, condemned to the monster that they made of her. But it was only now that she could afford to unlock the doors, and step out to freedom. She knew it was too late.

Hopeless.

_I’m sorry._

With that thought, a choked cry of despair escaped her throat even as Thresh, seeming to move in slow motion, made the final strike. The world shattered around her as she realized that she could _not_ accept this death, could _not_ die here without her hope, without her joy, without her whole.

With her final breath, as she lay motionless on the ground crippled but not yet quite dead, she gave to the sky one name.

_“Harry.”_

-

Her screams cut him worse than any knife.

He was far away – too far. The Feast had everything Harry needed to last until the end, but getting the gift would have killed him.

It was ironic, in a way. He had survived monsters, Death Eaters, those who claimed to be his friends. He had outlasted deadly curses, venomous bites, the worst of betrayals. Yet it was this sickness, cultivated by the harsh weather and unsterile environment, that would kill him.

Harry could barely think. He had no strength to fight, not even to raise his knife if another tribute were to come upon his shelter. His limbs were heavy, immobile. Yet, when he heard her cries echoing through the forest, he moved.

It wasn’t a run, wasn’t quite a stumble. He pulled himself between the trees, propelled by the last remaining strength of his magic as much as the strength of his will. Making his way desperately to the sound of his heart shattering, all rational thought dulled by weakness and fear.

There was no point in trying to win anymore. But this life… he would end it in the only situation he would deem acceptable.

When he reached the Cornucopia, Thresh was already running away, Cato chasing after. Katniss also retreated in the opposite direction, all the bags initially set there retrieved. But what remained was Harry’s everything.

He fell to his knees beside her broken body, collapsing as the last trickle of his magic faded into nothingness. She was gone, though not quite yet dead. Her brown eyes looked up at him with the vulnerability he had come to know and love.

This was the end.

-

It wasn’t the Mockingjay who started the rebellion, nor the Boy with the Bread, nor even young Rue.

It was the final act of unexpected love witnessed by everyone throughout Panem, an act of kindness in the face of defeat, hope in the face of hopelessness. It was in the final moments of the Career that all thought was a loveless monster, of the Boy Who Once Lived. It was in their deaths together, clinging on to the freedom that being with each other provided. It was in the juice of the berries that stained their lips as they stilled under the gaze of the Cornucopia, fingers entwined as they thought no longer of what could have been, but what they were.

It was in their first, and final kiss.


End file.
